


A Fate Worse Than Death

by Murder_Kitten



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood and Violence, Dark Magic, F/M, Horcruxes, M/M, Male Slash, POV Gellert Grindelwald, POV Tom Riddle, Revenge, Secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:47:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23034238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murder_Kitten/pseuds/Murder_Kitten
Summary: In December 1926, Gellert Grindelwald sought after a powerful Obscurial in New York City, little knowing that the most powerful dark wizard ever to exist, was being born on December 31 1926, a continent away. At the time of Grindelwald's battle against Dumbledore in 1945, Tom Riddle was just 18 years old and deep into the Darkest of Arts, helped along by his mentor Gellert Grindelwald. When the two darkest of wizards join forces and rise to power together, will there be anything Albus Dumbledore can do to stop them?
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald, Bellatrix Black Lestrange/Voldemort, Credence Barebone/Gellert Grindelwald, Gellert Grindelwald & Tom Riddle
Comments: 42
Kudos: 21





	1. After Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: the characters do not belong to me but are the property of J.K.R and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended. I make no profit from these works. All stories are for fun and entertainment only. 
> 
> I always welcome reviews/comments of people who enjoy my works. 
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read. I hope you enjoy it.

__

_New York City, December, 1926_

Gellert Grindelwald surveyed the busy streets of New York City with cool detachment. _Over-rated,_ he thought to himself. New York was hardly worth the hype the American wizards ascribed to it. No, it was merely a means to an end, he told himself. The very thing he needed to bring about the next phase of his plan was here, now it was just a matter of persuasion, something he was very gifted at.

He stepped back from the window, allowing the lace curtain to fall back into place. It wouldn’t do for his face to be recognised. Even hidden away in this non-magical neighbourhood it was dangerous. He must be cautious. If MACUSA caught the faintest whisper of his presence here, they would swarm like the misguided little ants they were. Yet, even ants served a purpose, he told himself.

He stepped into the small bathroom adjoining his hotel room, lighting the room with a wave of the hornbeam wand he held. He almost hated the feel of it in his hand, strange to think that this wand had been so much a part of his developing years, the beginnings of his magic, the infantile years before his rise to power. But it felt wrong, disrespectful even to use the Elder Wand for anything but the grandest and most impressive displays of magic. That was the trick with power, knowing when to wield it. And knowing when a lesser tool would serve. Such was the case with the identity he assumed daily, the mask of Percival Graves, a lesser tool behind which he remained hidden, but not for long. Not if another of his lesser tools brought him fruitful information. The boy. Credence Barebone. He would serve his purpose too, he was sure of it.

Satisfied that he had transfigured his appearance perfectly into that of Percival Graves, he left the hotel, slipping the Elder Wand into the inside pocket of his robes. He would never be foolish enough to leave the most powerful wand in existence, descended from myth and legend, the wand rumoured to have been crafted by Death Himself or Antioch Peverell more likely… how fanciful of the Peverell’s to put themselves on a level with the gods… His thoughts had wandered, he realised, but the point remained. One did not leave the Elder Wand lying about unguarded like that fool Mykew Gregorovitch.

His thoughts turned to his current problem. These attacks on New York City… He knew what it meant. An Obscurial. A powerful one. One he intended to bring into his Alliance. If that power could be channelled and directed, then blood pact be damned, he would finally have a way to remove Albus from the board. He almost hated to do it to his old friend, but that one glorious summer together had been so long ago…too much had changed and the fact remained. They weren’t 17 anymore. Albus was a threat to the New World Order, and threats had to be eliminated…for the Greater Good.

So focused was he in his mind on the potential power and opportunity this Obscurial presented, that for all his rare gifts and abilities, Grindelwald failed to perceive the moment a greater threat than Dumbledore and a greater power than Grindelwald himself possessed, came into being.

_December 31, 1926_

An ocean away, on the continent of Grindelwald’s greatest rival, in a shabby Muggle neighbourhood, away from the prying eyes of the magical world, a greater threat than Grindelwald could have imagined and the most powerful Dark Wizard to exist, took his first breath as Merope Gaunt-Riddle’s life force was extinguished. Tom Marvolo Riddle had arrived, his destiny soon to be entwined with that of Gellert Grindelwald, Albus Dumbledore and a child not yet born. A Boy who would Live. The age of the Darkest of Wizards had begun…


	2. All Our Dark Tomorrows

_June 30, 1927_

It had been a month, one glorious month since his escape from the hell hole MACUSA had tried to shove him in. He supposed he had the International Confederation of Wizards and their attempted extradition to thank for that. Well, and Abernathy, of course. And Antonio – he almost regretted having thrown the poor creature from the carriage. If Newt Scamander ever heard of it…well, that would be all kinds of fun. Newt would probably try to hit him with his suitcase, there was no telling what a Hufflepuff would do when angered, or so Albus had once told him. _Hufflepuff,_ he scoffed to himself. What a ridiculous word. He had always thought the Hogwarts house names absurd – Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Slytherin… He would have thought them made up words if he hadn’t read his aunt’s unpublished manuscript of the History of Hogwarts School and if Albus hadn’t regaled him with endless stories of the grand times he’d had there in his seven years as a student. He was hardly surprised Albus had returned to teach, he certainly had the inclination for it, though Gellert knew the real reason. Albus was _afraid._ Afraid of his own power, afraid of what people would think, afraid to dare to take what could be his if he only put his silly notions of right and wrong aside.

Gellert knew he would never be asked back to his school to teach, he had taught the teachers at Durmstrang more than they had ever wanted to know about the dark arts as a student before they’d seen fit to get rid of him. He’d certainly left his mark on the school. Literally. Carved into a wall and imbued with his own blood and magic to make it last forever. Perhaps they would name a Durmstrang house after him one day… Each of the houses were founded on a natural element of course, but with each house came the legend of an extraordinary witch or wizard who exemplified the house qualities they had chosen for their own. He liked to think his revolutionary ideas would someday inspire a legend for his own house– Grindelwald the Great, that certainly had a nice ring to it. How well he remembered them, like those legendary wizards were still a part of him…

There had been Nerida Vulchanova of course, the great founder and head of Domus Aqua – the water house. She and her house were known to be intelligent, frank and quick witted with amazing memories, known for patience and timing, always thinking through every action. She had been a great leader. Then there was Harfang Munter, her successor. He was the legendary head of Domus Ignus, the house of fire. He was known for his energy, charisma, and devotion to the martial magics and dark arts – setting the tone and reputation for Durmstrang as it currently was. He was also known to be erratic and impulsive, like Grindelwald himself. Then came Berggren Halsstarrig, the famed leader of Domus Terrae, the house of earth, firm, strong, unyielding, immovable and stubborn, Halsstarrig had been a staunch defender of the school and its students when it underwent widespread criticism for its emphasis on the dark arts. Grindelwald admired Halsstarrig’s stance on the magical arts: “there is only magic,” Halsstarrig had said, “it is up to the individual wizard to make it light or dark as he chooses.” And the final great was of course Sergei Sadzic, head of Domus Caeli, the house of air. Sadzic and his house were known for their intelligence, and quick thinking, the geniuses and inventors of the wizarding world, known for creativity and out of the box thinking. They tended to be idealists, but occasionally a Domus Caeli alumnus would take the world by storm. Grindelwald himself he believed was a close combination of Domus Ignus and Domus Caeli, a visionary with the passion and drive to see the plan through.

His plans had derailed a little of late. He was prepared to admit it. That was what came of years as a Domus Ignus initiate. He tended towards impulsivity and emotional outbursts. He had been angry, so very angry when Picquery and her Aurors had attacked the Obscurial – Credence. He had thought the boy and his power destroyed, gone, forever out of his reach. But he had recently learned it was not so. Credence had survived. Better than that, he was searching, he was a seeker like Grindelwald himself. Credence sought answers, family, the truth of his heritage. Fortunately, Grindelwald had those answers and was prepared to give them…for a price. The price of loyalty. Meddle as Dumbledore might, he didn’t understand Credence, not like Gellert did. He knew what it was to be scorned and hated for your gifts, your special talents, to be driven out of your own home because others feared your power. He could help Credence. He would help him harness that power, and not just to control it, but to enjoy it. To revel in the glory of it until the Muggles, the No Maj’s, the unspecial of the world knelt in fear and awe. Their true place in the world. At the feet of wizards, those select few born with magical gifts and powers that the common folk, the mundane, the average, would never know.

Yet, it was not Credence he sought at present. Credence would come to him given time. And he had an Acolyte watching Credence closely. Not that the boy suspected anything. She had played her part perfectly. The poor, trapped, damsel in distress, the circus freak, the monster, the cursed by blood, by fate itself – Nagini. She was magnificent, one of Gellert’s personal favourites. She would draw Credence to him, given time. The boy had been visiting her frequently at the circus of late. It was only a matter of time before Nagini allowed him to “rescue” her. A boy that liked to save people, a hero complex…where had he seen that before? Godric’s Hollow perhaps.

No, it was this other boy that occupied Gellert’s thoughts at present. He had first come to him in a vision when he had been locked away by MACUSA. Gellert didn’t yet know his name, but he knew his future power. A Parseltongue, descended from a great lineage, who would grow into the most powerful and feared of wizards, greater than Gellert himself, and the one to execute his vision – magical might over the Muggles – the non-magicals of the world, and unkillable, Gellert had seen him rise from a cauldron, a snakelike monstrosity of a wizard, Nagini the fallen angel on his shoulder still. This boy, this powerful force of darkness and unleashed magic…he was the key, if only he could be found…


	3. Alone in the Dark

_August 31, 1932_

A handful of uneventful years had passed since Tom Marvolo Riddle had been born at the Wools’ Orphanage in London. That was all he had really, a name. He didn’t even know his mother’s name. She had died in childbirth, leaving Tom all alone in the world…how he hated her for that. All Mrs Cole and the other orphanage staff had been able to tell him was that he had been named for his father. Tom liked to hope he looked like him, but couldn’t be sure of course, since he had never seen him or met anyone who knew him. Tom was certain if he could only find him, his father would take him away from this place and give him the life he’d always dreamed of, the life he read about in the books he spent all his free time reading. Why, brave knights were always rescuing pretty damsels in distress and miserable orphans like Oliver Twist had secret inheritances and happy endings all the time. Surely, it was only a matter of time before Tom’s own happy ending came along.

Tom would be starting school soon, and he felt both excited and nervous at the prospect. The older children always complained about school, but then, they complained about everything, Tom reasoned. What could be bad about getting to leave the orphanage every day and spend your time reading and studying and making friends? Tom had never had a friend, but he thought he might want one. Everyone in his books seemed to have one and it seemed a good idea. Even a faithful or wisecracking sidekick would do, he thought hopefully. He began the September after his fifth birthday. Knowing that he would be a number of months older than the other children in his year level gave him an edge, Tom felt. Besides Mrs Cole was always saying that Tom had read more books and with more thought than most children with twice his age and life experience. Tom wasn’t completely sure what all that meant, but it sounded like a compliment and as he got little enough affection or kindness as it was, he decided to treat it as such, going into his first day of school with high hopes and a firm resolve to impress students and faculty alike with his brilliance.

It didn’t work out quite as he’d planned, Tom reflected, when he made his way back to the orphanage late the next afternoon. It was always _the orphanage_ even in his own head, never _home._ But regardless, the day had been an unmitigated disaster. Tom had embarrassed himself from the first. Before he’d even found his classroom, he’d nearly been hit by a large brown ball, thrown by boys easily twice his size and been laughed off the court, while they pointed and jeered at him, calling him unkind names. Then he’d gotten hopelessly lost and had to go find a teacher to help him locate his classroom. Then when he’d got there, the room had been filled with so many children, and loud ones at that, and so he’d quite lost his nerve and clung to the yard duty teacher’s leg and sobbed, begging to go back to the orphanage and not be left here with _them,_ these horrifyingly dirty, giggling monstrosities that were supposed to be his intellectual equals. The teacher had gently prised Tom from her leg and handed him off to a woman Tom now knew to be called Mrs Cook, who was to be his teacher for the next year. Tom had calmed down after a few deep breaths and sat at his desk trying to inconspicuously wipe his nose on his sleeve, since none of these savages seemed to possess a clean handkerchief and his was already all bloody from mopping up the knee he’d torn open diving out of the way of that big brown ball earlier, not that anyone had even stopped to help him up, he thought resentfully.

By lunchtime, he’d already grown entirely bored with the curriculum the teacher said was the standard for a child his age. He wiled away the forty minute break leaning against a wall and staring moodily at the ball court, but staying well clear this time. He hadn’t managed to make any friends yet, not that he particularly wanted any of his classmates for a friend. They were all so stupid, he thought crossly, picking a piece of dirt out of his skun knee and wincing when it stung. The bell rang to signal the end of the break and Tom made his way back to the classroom, resigned to another few hours of tedious boredom.

After lunch, Mrs Cook decided it was reading time and Tom felt his excitement rise. This was something he was good at, his favourite pastime! His joy quickly turned to disgust when Mrs Cook handed out the reading material. Honestly, they called this a book? It was barely ten pages and mostly pictures. Tom’s disgust deepened to a scowl when he heard the other children attempt to read the paltry little book. Half the class didn’t even know their letters and the other half had to sound out their letters before they could even pronounce a word, struggling along with the most basic sentence while they sounded out T—H—E…. _the… C—A—T….cc..aa..ttt….the cat…_

Losing patience, Tom read aloud in a bored voice “The cat sat on the mat,” rolling his eyes when Mrs Cook glared at him.

“ _Tom,”_ she said sternly. “Nobody likes a show-off.” Then she’d sent him to stand in the corner to think about his behaviour! No wonder the older children at the orphanage complained about it so much, Tom thought huffily, it was downright ridiculous. The bell rang to signal the end of the day and Tom grabbed his stained second-hand backpack with relief, but Mrs Cook wasn’t done with him yet.

“Tom,” she called when he was almost to the door, close enough to smell freedom. “Come here a minute.”

“Why?” he said with a sigh.

“Because I want to talk to you. And watch your tone!” She said crossly.

Tom pressed his lips together tightly and then turned and marched up to her, schooling his face into a suitably humble expression. “Yes?” He said shortly.

“Take the erasers outside and clap them for me. And tomorrow, no showing off. It makes the other children feel bad.” Looking at her incredulously, Tom nevertheless took the erasers and clapped them, glaring at the chalk powder that now marred his clean clothes. She’d done that on purpose, just to humiliate him, he thought furiously, tempted to throw the damn things away, or better, clap them on her face and see how she liked having white powder everywhere. But he didn’t, he obediently returned the erasers and left quietly, resolving that he would never come back to this mad house.

But a new face at the orphanage that afternoon was about to change things for Tom. A new boy had been taken in by Mrs Cole and she soon ordered Tom to show him around, a task he despised. But the boy, _Billy_ , turned out to be a witty and entertaining companion. He knew more bad words than anyone Tom had ever met and seemed to find everything funny, laughing easily and often. Billy had red hair and a lot of freckles covering his cheeks which were rosy from years of outdoor play in the countryside. His parents had died in a fire he said, but he didn’t like to talk about it. Tom didn’t mind that at all, he had his own secrets. But Billy had the best secret of all – a fluffy grey rabbit named Gabbi.

Life was a laugh for Tom now that he had Billy. He found he didn’t mind the tedious lessons half so much now that he had Billy there whispering jokes in his ear and sneaking him notes under the desk. Billy was an artist too, he’d drawn a hilarious cartoon of Mrs Cook yelling, but she’d confiscated it and given Billy a detention after school. Tom didn’t mind waiting for him, that’s what friends did. _Friends forever_ Billy said. He and Tom would always be together, no matter what. They had classes together, did homework together, played together at lunchtime, fed Gabbi the rabbit together, endured detentions and bullies together, told each other stories and secrets late at night in whispers so the other children wouldn’t hear. But always together. Forever. Just like Billy promised.

_December 24, 1932_

Forever lasted nearly four months until a couple came by the orphanage, looking to adopt. They were immediately charmed by Billy’s easy demeanour and cheeky humour and determined to give the boy a home and family for Christmas. Tom was devastated.

“But, you promised!” He said over and over to Billy, though it made little difference. At first Billy had seemed sad for Tom, but this quickly changed to annoyance when Tom wouldn’t let it go, whining petulantly all afternoon, while Billy’s new parents went downtown to sign the adoption papers. They would be back for him in the morning.

“I thought you’d be happy for me.” He said sullenly, shoving the last of his few belongings into his schoolbag to take with him.

“I am. I want to be. It’s just… maybe you can ask them if I can come too?” Tom said hopefully, desperate not to be parted from Billy.

“They don’t want you Tom. They picked _me._ I’m going, end of story.” Billy said huffily, turning his back on him. He didn’t know what had made him say it and an apology was halfway out of his mouth when he heard the half choked sob Tom made.

“Wait-“ Billy said regretfully, but Tom ran past him, out the door and into the grounds. He made his way to the old cowshed where they kept Gabbi in a small rabbit hutch. Tom wanted to scream, he was so angry. He’d never been so angry in his life, not even when other kids had picked on him or when Mrs Cook had made him clap erasers outside or called him a show-off. _Fine,_ he thought, a coldness settling in his heart in place of the hurt he felt at Billy breaking his promise to be friends together forever. _Fine, go on Billy. Your new family can have you. But you’re not keeping Gabbi,_ he decided resentfully. Afterwards, he didn’t know how he’d done it. Being angry gave him a strange power, he supposed. He was special, and Billy and Mrs Cook and Mrs Cole were all too dumb to see it. They’d all be sorry. 

Billy tried to talk to Tom at bedtime, to whisper to him like they always did but Tom wouldn’t talk to him. He resolutely turned his back on Billy and ignored all his pitiful attempts to apologise for what he’d said, to apologise for breaking his promise, even though it wasn’t his fault. In the end, Billy gave up. He’d tried. Maybe by the morning, Tom would be over it and they would be friends again, maybe they could even write to each other. He was sure his new parents would allow it.

Morning came and with it Billy’s new family. Tom remained sullen and moody, ignoring Billy and glaring jealously at the family that had come to take his friend away from him.

“Oh I almost forgot!” Billy exclaimed, after collecting his things from his room. “I want you to meet Gabbi!” He led his new parents out to the cowshed out back, he couldn’t wait to show them his darling little bunny, she was trained to be hand fed and she had the softest velvety ears that would just--- Billy froze, horrified and then let out a blood curdling screech of grief and horror. His precious Gabbi was dead – hanging from the rafters, a rope around her obviously broken neck.

Billy fell to his knees and sobbed. His new parents were shocked but quickly promised to get him another rabbit he could keep at their house. Billy nodded, wiping away his tears. He would have a new family, Tom couldn’t take that away from him, try as he might.

“Tom killed my rabbit.” Billy blurted to Mrs Cole as he was leaving, he had nothing to lose now. Tom’s eyes flashed at the betrayal, but Billy no longer cared what Tom thought. He was a murderer, he told himself. And Mrs Cole, for the life of her, couldn’t work out how Tom had done it. The rafters were much too high for a child of almost 6 to reach and there were no ladders or boxes he could’ve climbed on to string the rabbit up. It was a mystery, she declared, deciding to let it be since Billy was gone and Tom was surely hurting, poor lamb.

And as for Tom Riddle, he had decided that at the grownup and mature age of almost-six, that he had outgrown friends. People would always betray you. No, they could be used or manipulated, but never were they to be trusted. Billy Stubbs was proof of that. And so he began his early descent into darkness and isolation, begun with the death of a rabbit and the loss of his once and only friend…


	4. Are You Afraid of the Dark?

_February 25, 1934_

Two years had passed since Billy Stubbs had left the Wools’ Orphanage for a new home and life with his adoptive family. It had been a lonely two years for Tom Riddle. The hole Billy’s betrayal and subsequent departure had left remained impossible to fill. Even Tom’s favourite pastime – reading, no longer held the same thrill it once did. Stories had lost their charm for young Tom. All these authors hailed friendship as the epitome of human existence. They conveniently left out of their stories how much it hurt when your friends left you, Tom thought bitterly. Unable to fill the void that howled like a gaping abyss in his young heart, Tom soon turned to other amusements.

He remembered the day he had discovered his strange powers. The day he’d strung Billy’s rabbit up in the old cowshed. But despite Tom’s attempts to tap into those powers again and explore his special gifts, his powers remained elusive and untapped. At times, he wondered if he’d dreamt the whole thing up. Maybe he just wished he was strong and he wasn’t special at all, he thought despairingly. But sometimes, Tom had strange dreams about a man with different coloured eyes and pale hair. The man would whisper to him in his dreams and tell him he was different. He was special. Tom wanted to believe him, the dream man wanted to be his friend. Sometimes he would ask Tom what his name was or where he was, but Tom didn’t answer. He wasn’t allowed to talk to strangers, Mrs Cole said so.

Tom believed his powers might have remained elusive and dormant forever if it hadn’t been for her – little Katie Stewart. One Saturday afternoon, Tom was at a loose end. Usually he kept to himself in his room, but he could only stare at the patched, peeling paint for so long before he went stir crazy. He had planned to take a walk, but the sky was dark, foreboding a storm and heavy rain. Tom liked water about as much as cats, so he resigned himself to the fact that it would be an indoor day. He wandered aimlessly through the corridors. Some of the other children were playing with jacks and marbles, but of course, they never invited Tom to play with them. The story of what had happened to Billy Stubbs’ rabbit had been spread far and wide and many of the children were afraid of him. Others called him a ‘weirdo’ and a ‘freak.’ These weren’t exactly cuss words, so the children couldn’t get in trouble with Mrs Cole for saying them to or about Tom. Knowing this, and seeing how angry the words made Tom, the older children would use these words all the more, taunting him whenever Mrs Cole wasn’t around.

Tom had half a mind to stop by the small library the orphanage kept. It wasn’t a large room and there wasn’t a great variety of books, but it was usually quiet. Tom liked that. The room smelled musty and most surfaces were covered with dust. The books were in a poor state of repair, many with yellowed pages, some had even been damaged by mice, droppings lining the boxes where the books were kept. There weren’t shelves in the library. It was merely an assembly of boxed books that people sometimes donated to the orphanage, along with clothes that didn’t fit them anymore. But to Tom it was a haven. Sometimes he lost himself in the room for hours at a time. But not today… Someone was already in there.

“Who’s there?” Tom called angrily, annoyed that someone was invading his private clubhouse, of which there was only one member ( _two,_ if he counted Renegade, a greedy rat that Tom had named).

He was met with giggles for an answer. _Stupid girls,_ Tom thought entering the room and proceeding to attempt to locate the source of the noise.

After a minute or so, Tom found them. A circle of five girls, sitting cross-legged in a dusty corner. One girl was reading while the others sewed, darning socks, patching dresses and hemming the frayed edges of handkerchiefs. Most of the girls were a little older than Tom, about eight or nine years old. The eldest, Abby Ellesmere was reading aloud while the smaller girls sewed diligently, their heads bent over their work.

“What are you doing in here?” Tom said in an unfriendly tone.

“None of your business.” Katie said, looking up from her sewing and glaring at him while she played with a small gold thimble. Tom glared right back. Katie was a very plump little girl with long blonde hair and a too-short skirt that had been mended a half dozen times. And she was a brat. Tom was quite convinced of that, knowing full well that Katie loved to gossip and spread lies and half-truths about people. He couldn’t think of anything worse. But he was bored and lonely today, so he put on his most polite voice and best manners (which Katie sorely lacked) and addressed Abby. She was the eldest of the girls and therefore in charge.

“Would you mind if I joined you? I won’t be a bother, I promise.” He said sincerely.

“You’re _always_ a bother.” Katie muttered, rolling her eyes at him.

Tom bit his lip not to say something rude in response, he wished she would just shut her stupid mouth.

“Be nice, Katie.” Abby said warningly, using her big sister voice. “I don’t mind if you join us, Tom.” She said kindly. “Only I’m afraid it will be very boring for you. You don’t know how to sew.”

“I could read.” Tom offered, his eyes pleading, begging Abby to let him stay.

Katie scoffed at him. “Just go away, Tom. Nobody wants you here. And besides, this is a _girl’s_ sewing group. You’re not a girl. You’re just a nasty rabbit killing _freak._ ” She spat the last word at him and Tom’s blood boiled.

“Katie!” Abby scolded.

“What? It’s true.” Katie said defensively. “I heard he skinned it and made it into socks.” She whispered, glancing scornfully at Tom’s ankles which were covered by his long grey trousers.

“That’s nothing but a _lie!”_ Tom said furiously, his eyes flashing as all the girls stared at him, at least half of them wondering if what Katie said was true.

“Prove it, rabbit killer!” Katie taunted him.

Tom flushed. He had never made the rabbit into socks, but right now he wasn’t wearing any socks because his last pair had got holes in. Too embarrassed to admit that in front of Katie and her friends, he turned to go.

“That’s what I thought.” Katie said smugly. “Rabbit killer.”

All consuming rage filled Tom and he spun back around, fists raised. But Mrs Cole said it wasn’t nice to hit girls, so he hesitated.

Then Katie stuck her tongue out at him and whispered something mean in the ear of the girl sitting closest.

Tom saw red and yelled “I wish everyone knew what a horrible girl you are!” He said furiously. “You’re just a fat, stupid liar. Now _shut your mouth!”_ He ordered.

There was a collective scream as Katie’s sewing needle rose up into the air of it’s own accord, still threaded with white cotton. Katie screamed in terror as the sharp needle punctured her bottom lip, drawing blood. Tom watched, transfixed, as the needle drew the white thread through the corner of her bottom lip and then punctured the top lip, pulling the thread through it tightly. Katie clutched at her mouth, blood dripping down her chin, her screams turning to terrified sobs as the needle and thread wove between top lip and bottom in a crisscross pattern, sewing her mouth firmly shut.

Katie’s pale blue eyes widened as she realised she couldn’t move her lips or make a sound beyond a muffled moan of pain.

“I’m telling Mrs Cole!” Abby declared, the other little girls having fled the scene in hysterics.

“Go ahead.” Tom said coldly, leaning down and pocketing Katie’s gold thimble which she had dropped in her panic. “I’d like to see you _prove it.”_ He said triumphantly to Katie as tears streamed from the little girl’s eyes, blood dripping from her rapidly swelling lips. Abby led Katie from the room as Tom watched them go with an odd gleam in his eyes.

_I knew it. I knew I was special,_ he thought to himself as he placed the stolen gold thimble in a cardboard box in his wardrobe. _I knew it._

_May 1 st, 1934 _

It had been over two months since the sewing incident with little Katie Stewart. As Tom had predicted, Abby hadn’t been able to prove he had done anything to the little girl, and Katie certainly wasn’t talking. Even after the stitches had been removed, she remained silent, as though afraid of what Tom would do to her if she ever spoke out of turn again. Mrs Cole had been horrified of course and questioned Tom about it, but he swore he’d never touched Katie’s sewing needle and the girls who had witnessed the incident told the same story. But lips didn’t sew themselves shut, Mrs Cole reasoned. Tom had done _something_ , she was sure of it. So she administered a mild punishment, Tom was to spend part of every day for the foreseeable future tending to the mess of mud and weeds Mrs Cole called a vegetable garden. Tom hated every minute of it, but relished the terrified looks Katie would give him whenever she passed him in the corridor now, scuttling away like a little mouse.

By the first week of May, Tom’s punishment was finally over. In addition to being free to pursue his own interests again, Tom had managed to plant, grow and harvest a modest crop of radishes. Mrs Cole was pleased with his efforts and sent him down to the local village market the following weekend to trade or sell the radishes. Times were hard and the orphans couldn’t live on radishes and gruel.

Although initially resentful of missing out on his weekend reading time, Tom soon found that he was enjoying himself. There were so many things to see in the marketplace – fish vendors with the day’s catch, farmers selling beef and lamb or chickens, colourful fruit and vegetable stalls. His favourite by far was the confectioner’s stall and he only wished he had a few coins to purchase some of the hard boiled candy that looked and smelled so tempting.

By lunchtime, he had managed to sell two thirds of the radishes to the proprietor of another vegetable stall. He traded the last third of his radishes for two ten pound sacks of flour the miller offered him. Tom was pleased with his success and decided to reward himself with a little candy, purchasing a long stick of black liquorice and a small package of hard boiled lollies. He pocketed the sweets quickly, afraid that someone would see and dob him in to Mrs Cole. He planned to enjoy them all by himself later.

Finished with his task, Tom wandered aimlessly around the marketplace, looking around at all the things. He wished he had more money, but he knew he shouldn’t spend any more or Mrs Cole might get suspicious. A peddler on the edge of the market square caught Tom’s eye and he made his way over slowly, impeded by the two heavy sacks of flour he now had to drag along.

Tom watched the peddler produce all sorts of interesting things from his cart – spinning tops, lamps, balls, dolls, toy soldiers, even little instruments – a tambourine, a set of maracas and a harmonica. When the peddler blew across the mouthpiece of that little harmonica, Tom’s heart swelled with envy. He had never wanted anything so much in his entire life!

The man noticed him staring. “Step right up, young man! Have a go!” He said, handing the harmonica to Tom. Tom tried blowing in it, but it didn’t sound right.

“Here, boy. When you blow into it, don’t stay in one spot. Imagine you’re dividing it into half and then each half into quarters. That’ll give you eight sections – those sections are your notes.” He explained, demonstrating a little tune on the instrument.

Tom nodded eagerly, holding out his hand for the harmonica but the peddler gave him a calculating look and held it just out of his reach.

“How will you be paying for it?” He asked. “Just three shillings and she’s all yours.”

Tom withdrew the money that had lain hidden in his pocket. “I shouldn’t.” He mumbled.

“What’s that boy?” The peddler asked, eying Tom’s money greedily.

“It’s not mine.” Tom said quietly, deciding to do the right thing and putting the money back in his pocket.

“Not yours?” The peddler questioned. “You’re a thief, are you? Well, get on with you then, you little good for nothing, go on!” He said aggressively, as Tom’s cheeks burned with anger and his eyes flashed.

Tom didn’t move and the peddler glared down at him threateningly.

“I said, move along, boy. Or I’ll be calling the police constable over here to sort you out!” He threatened Tom.

“I’ll sort _you_ out…” Tom muttered under his breath. The peddler however, had turned back to his cart and didn’t hear Tom’s muttered threat. Not that he would’ve taken it seriously if he had. What threat could a child of seven years of age possibly be?

He was about to find out.

The peddler had just reached the cart, when inadvertently a sudden wind whipped up blowing the flimsy wooden cart over and pinning the peddler beneath it, the harmonica flying out of his hand and tumbling end over end until it landed at Tom’s feet. The man struggled beneath the cart, calling out for help. Market shoppers began to rush toward the man but before anyone could reach the overturned cart or help the peddler out from under it, a kerosene lamp fell from the top of the cart, smashing mere inches from the man’s face. The oil from the lamp seeped over the ground around the cart, even soaking into the peddler’s clothes as the man struggled against the weight crushing him.

He happened to glance up at Tom Riddle who met his eyes with a twisted smile. Seconds later, impossibly, the kerosene lit, the peddler’s cart and all his goods going up in flames as he screamed, his eyes wide with fear as he struggled to escape the crushing weight and the heat of the flames burning all around him.

Tom Riddle calmly bent and scooped up _his_ harmonica and pocketed it. He grabbed his heavy sacks of flour and walked slowly away as the smell of smoke and burning flesh filled the air, the peddler shrieking in agony. _Who’s good for nothing now?_ Tom thought savagely as he trudged up the path to the orphanage where Mrs Cole was waiting for him.

“Tom! There you are! I saw the smoke – I was so worried! Here, let me help you with those heavy sacks. Are you alright?” She said, babbling away.

“Fine.” Tom replied quietly. He left her with the sacks of flour and the money he had received from selling the radishes, heedless of her praise as he went upstairs to his room.

He emptied his pockets when he was alone, shoving the sweets into his bedside drawer, no longer hungry. He held the harmonica and smiled. He didn’t care about it now, he doubted whether he would ever play it. But it was a reminder, a reminder that he was _special,_ he thought as he placed it carefully in his trophy box, next to the gold thimble.

It was in the newspapers the very next morning. A peddler had been horribly injured in an accidental fire at a local market when his cart had overturned and one of his lamps had exploded. He was afflicted with severe burns and not expected to live.

_What a shame, poor man,_ Mrs Cole thought, tutting to herself and failing to notice the look of grim satisfaction on Tom Riddle’s face when she read the story aloud to the children at breakfast.

_I’m special,_ Tom thought, pleased. _I can make them hurt if I want to…Nobody will ever hurt me again…_

_September 20 th, 1934_

School had started again and after what had happened to the peddler in the marketplace in May, Tom now felt secure enough in his own power that he no longer feared name calling or bullies that were bigger than him. He was stronger than them now and he knew it. That was no reason to outright antagonise them of course, but it was reassuring to have a card up his sleeve all the same. He couldn’t be too obvious with his special abilities, he knew that. He didn’t want to end up in jail or the asylum.

And it helped that people had heard things about him of course. The name _Tom Riddle_ was no longer bandied about the schoolyard so carelessly anymore. There was something strange about him, something dangerous. All the children knew that – the tales of Billy Stubbs’ rabbit and Katie Stewart’s lips being sewn shut, now very well known.

But the stories didn’t stop one particular bully from setting his sights on Tom. That Riddle boy was getting too big for his britches, he deemed. This boy’s name was Daniel Brown and he was from the mean side of the tracks. He wasn’t as big as some of the other boys but he was meaner, quick, cunning and cruel. He was by no means the smartest boy on the block either, and he watched very jealously one dreary Thursday afternoon as Tom was awarded a gold star by the teacher (his tenth in a row) and was permitted to select a prize from the box as his reward.

Tom selected a beautiful, round yo-yo with a fine cotton string, extremely pleased with himself for his efforts. That feeling didn’t last long however. He’d packed up for the day and was heading towards the school gates, playing with his new yo-yo and admiring it, when a hard shove sent him sprawling to the ground, skinning his knees and left forearm spectacularly. The yo-yo rolled away from him and was picked up by Daniel Brown.

“That’s _mine!”_ Tom hollered at him, springing to his feet and wincing as pain shot through his bloody knees.

“Come and get it then.” Daniel taunted him, slipping his finger through the cotton loop of the yoyo and playing with it, dangling out of his reach.

Tom glared at him, feeling his fingertips tingle. He had his special power, he wasn’t afraid.

“Nothing to say Riddle?” Daniel said, leering at him. “Not so tough after all, are you? Just pathetic.” He said, laughing.

“See, you’re not special Riddle.” Daniel said scathingly. “You won’t even lift a finger to take back your precious toy.” He sneered.

“I don’t need to.” Tom said quietly.

“What are you talking about, you freak?” Daniel said impatiently.

Tom said nothing, just watching as the cotton loop around Daniel’s finger slowly tightened, cutting off the blood supply. Daniel’s finger turned purple as the lad swore, yanking and pulling and twisting, even trying to bite the string off, to no avail.

The cotton was now so taut, it was like wire, slowly cutting through Daniel’s finger as the boy panicked and yelled, finally letting out a blood curdling scream as the yoyo dropped and hit the ground, the tip of Daniel’s finger coming with it, as the boy sobbed and stared at his shortened, bleeding index finger, horrified.

A teacher came running over. “What’s going on here?” He demanded, looking from Tom’s skinned knees to Daniel’s severed fingertip.

“Nothing, sir.” Tom said innocently. “I tripped.”

“And what happened to his hand??” The teacher demanded, giving Tom a hard stare as Daniel cradled his hand and sobbed, the teacher quickly wrapping the finger in a clean handkerchief.

“No idea.” Tom shrugged, bending and picking up his yoyo, placing it in his pocket.

“Did you do this?” The teacher asked Tom sternly.

“Honestly sir, I never _touched_ him and that’s the truth. Isn’t that right?” He said, looking coldly at Daniel, the school bully, broken.

“It’s true. He didn’t touch me.” Daniel said with a half choked sob, remembering Riddle’s words. _I don’t need to,_ he’d said. Now he understood why people were so afraid of him.

The teacher shook his head, bewildered.

“Alright, nurse’s office, Brown. Riddle…” he hesitated, knowing he had no proof of foul play. By Daniel’s own admission, Riddle hadn’t laid a finger on him. “Go home.” He said finally and Tom gave him a mock half bow, heading back to the orphanage without another word.

When he reached his room, he set the bloodstained yoyo in his little box. He was amassing quite the collection of items now. All proof that he was _special_ and nobody else was, with the exception of perhaps one other. The man with mismatched eyes and pale hair who was still searching for him, eager to harness the boy’s dark powers which had begun to corrupt him already, blackening his young heart forever…


	5. Beware of Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The headstone poem is credited to the words of Langston Hughes. No copyright infringement is intended.

_August 25 th 1935_

Gellert Grindelwald groaned with frustration. He just could not seem to focus today. It didn’t help in the slightest that he’d spent months, _years,_ searching for this child prodigy who would help him realise and perfect his mission – magical might over the muggles, _for the greater good,_ of course; but all his attempts to find said child had been fruitless thus far. Part of him wondered if Albus might be concealing the child from him.

A child with such magical power must surely be registered in the famed Hogwarts Book of Admittance. Gellert had heard tales of this powerfully magical object. It dated back to the time of the Hogwarts Founders. It was a book bound in black dragonhide, hidden in a tower of the castle, where the magical Quill of Acceptance would write the names of children who exhibited magical prowess, registering them for future enrolment at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The boy Gellert sought was surely registered in the Book of Admittance, but the chances of breaking into Hogwarts in order to find the book and copy pages of names was next to impossible with Albus guarding the school.

He wished he could talk to his old friend, reason with him. They had once been of the same mind, wanted the same things, though it was long ago. _Very_ long ago, more than three decades ago. And that was the other thing keeping him from focusing. Today was an anniversary of sorts for them both. He knew where Albus would be, now it was merely a question of plucking up the courage to approach him and hoping Albus wouldn’t kill him on sight. Not that he would of course, killing was much too low for Albus. Killing was for the weak, the desperate, the uncontrolled, supposedly. Albus himself was a master of control, and Gellert well knew it. The few times he had seen Albus Dumbledore’s perfect control falter had been _interesting…_

Gellert apparated away, landing in a little village he had thought never to return to when he had fled it more than thirty years ago. _Godric’s Hollow._ This accursed place had been the beginning and the end of him and Albus. The place where they had first come together in mind and body. And the place where it had all gone so horribly wrong and torn them apart. But they had been boys then, now they were men, maybe it was different… Gellert hoped it was, as he cast a disillusionment charm over himself and made his way to the little cemetery behind the church. He had visited this place once with Albus before, to lay flowers on Kendra Dumbledore’s grave. And now another anniversary had drawn him back. He wouldn’t have come at all, but things were moving quickly, plans were in motion and he needed Albus to understand, to come over to the right side before it was too late.

Gellert entered the small cemetery through the kissing gate, the whisper of his cloak the only indication of his presence. He followed a familiar path to a row of headstones. His memory was flawless in guiding him, though he had only been here once. One headstone he remembered, and one he didn’t – a smaller headstone than the first, with an achingly familiar name carved into the stone:

_Ariana Dumbledore_

_23-02-1885 – 25-08-1899_

_Loving daughter and sister._

_‘Life is for the living,_

_Death is for the dead._

_Let life be like music,_

_And death a note unsaid.’_

A man knelt before the headstone, murmuring quietly. Perhaps he was praying, Gellert wouldn’t know. He had never felt the need to beg before a higher power other than that which he himself possessed. He waited in respectful silence. Was it respectful if you were invisible and eavesdropping? He never found out because the man’s head suddenly jerked up.

“What do you want, Gellert?” he said, his voice thick with constricted emotion. “Still trying to eliminate me for the Greater Good?” He said, a tinge of bitterness evident in his tone.

“You wound me, Albus.” He said with mock gravity. “If I truly wanted you dead, you wouldn’t even hear the curse before you were struck down.”

“How exceedingly noble of you.” Albus said. “If you are not here to murder me in cold blood, why have you come?” He asked.

“Don’t you know?” Gellert asked. “I wish things were different Albus. I truly do. I wish we could talk as we used to, that we could _be_ what we used to.” He said longingly in a rare moment of honesty.

“Wishing is for children.” Albus said coldly. “I thought you’d grown up Gellert, though I suppose since you’re still chasing that Hallows fairy tale, you haven’t grown up at all, have you?”

Gellert didn’t answer, trying desperately to rein in his anger. How badly he wanted to declare that it was no foolish fairy tale! He had the Elder Wand right here in his pocket, he had proof it was no childish fantasy, but no, it would be unwise to gloat, so silent he remained.

“Nothing to say, Gellert?” Albus said impatiently. “You could show yourself at the very least.”

Gellert hesitated, he was wary of showing his face in public these days. But he had detected no Aurors nearby. They were truly alone. He cancelled his disillusionment charm, revealing himself with a faint _pop._

“Happy?” He said sourly, Albus’ bitterness starting to rub off on him. He had come here with such hope. A fool’s hope, perhaps.

Albus faced him and shrugged. Today was not the day to expect him to be happy about anything.

Gellert seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “It’s been more than thirty years Albus.” He pointed out. “How long must you mourn?”

“Thirty- _six_ years it has been.” Albus corrected him. “And there is no statute of limitations on grief, Gellert.” He said gravely.

“Is this grief, Albus? Or guilt?” Gellert asked daringly as his former friend’s eyes flashed warningly.

“Don’t you _dare_ speak to me of guilt.” Albus said in an angry hiss, that usual tranquil, serene self-control faltering, giving Gellert no small measure of self-satisfaction.

“Very well. What shall we speak of then?” Gellert asked innocently.

“I hear the German Chancellor is in your pocket now.” Albus said mildly. “What are you doing with a Muggle politician? I thought the non-magical community was beneath you.”

“They are. Or will be soon. Six feet is the standard, I believe?” Gellert said, glancing at the surrounding headstones with disinterest.

“You’re mad.” Albus said, moving as if to stride past him in disgust.

“There was a time you found my madness quite attractive, if memory serves.” Gellert said, grinning wickedly.

He just loved getting under Albus Dumbledore’s skin. There was no better feeling in all the world. Well, there was _one_ better, he thought wryly, catching that hungry, desperate look in his old friend’s eyes, a look he had not seen in many a year, a look that sent Gellert’s lips crashing against Albus’s, his tongue sliding over Albus’s lips, entering his mouth forcefully and drawing a groan from him. He swirled his tongue around Albus’s and licked the roof of his mouth. Albus moaned with longing, his cock already stirring against Gellert’s leg as he clutched at him and groped at the front of his trousers, freeing Gellert’s cock with long deft fingers. After all, he was 54, not _dead._

Later, as they lay sprawled together and utterly spent, the Elder Wand still glistening wetly between them in the sun, coated in their combined juices, they could almost believe they were seventeen again and that there wasn’t a world of difference between them, a gulf the size of Carpentaria spanning the years between the past and the present.

“Gellert?” Albus said sleepily, as his friend donned his robes, wiping the elder wand in the grass and then casting a thorough cleaning charm, before pocketing it.

“What?” Gellert asked quietly.

“Just… don’t go so far you can never come back.” Albus said pleadingly, feeling like he was seventeen again – the prize winning dork begging the bad boy to be different than he truly was.

Gellert paused thoughtfully, seeming conflicted, but then squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. No, he’d gone too far to turn back. There was no coming home to his aunt for the summer when he was bad anymore. There was only victory, imprisonment or death waiting for him.

“Goodbye, Albus.” He said, almost regretfully, turning and apparating away. He had a war to win… for the Greater Good.


	6. Cold Dark World

_March 20 th 1936_

A year or two had passed since Tom Riddle had performed a minor amputation on his school bully, and in that time he had continued to practice his special powers in secret, mostly on small animals or birds, having drawn too much attention to his strange gifts already through a number of _nasty incidents_ as they would come to be called. Time had marched on as it was apt to do, and Tom’s ninth birthday had come and gone, yet still no family, Riddles or otherwise, had come looking for him. Tom had by now given up hope that they ever would. They didn’t want him. That was fine. He didn’t want them either. In fact, he told himself, if he ever met them, the only thing he wanted to do was to practice his powers on them or lock them away and see how they liked being ignored for nine years. They had abandoned or forgotten him and one day he would find out why and punish them for it.

Today was not that day, however. Today was the day of the Wools’ Orphanage Annual Field Trip. Every year, the orphanage staff carefully set aside a few extra pounds to take the children out for the day, whether to the bustling streets of city London or out to a local farm in the countryside for a day of fruit picking and picnics. This year they were going to the seashore and all the children were very excited about it, even Tom in his broody, subdued way, was quite looking forward to a day out that wasn’t school.

The trip to the shore was long and bumpy and Tom felt confined, sandwiched between two small children – Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop. Both were extremely irritating.

Every few minutes, little Amy would turn her head quickly, smacking Tom across the face with her silly pigtails (Tom himself had half a mind to chop them off) and whining loudly “are we there yet?” in a petulant, babyish tone that set Tom’s teeth on edge.

And Dennis… he was just disgusting, Tom thought. He was a small boy with stringy brown hair that had tiny lice crawling in it. Tom could see them moving about at the roots of Dennis’s hair. Every now and again, Dennis would scratch his head, likely spreading lice and eggs to everyone in the vicinity (Tom’s scalp itched just thinking about it) and if Dennis thought nobody was watching, he would pinch a tiny struggling louse between his fingers and pop it into his mouth. The fifth time it happened, Tom leaned away from him as far as he could get without sitting in Amy’s lap. Tom decided then and there that when he was old enough to go to the barber by himself, he would have all his hair shaved off and just be bald. No hair was better than bugs crawling through your hair, he thought, shuddering again.

“Mrs Cole, are we the—” Amy began to whine.

“Yes, yes, dear, we’re here.” Mrs Cole replied impatiently, remembering suddenly why they only made this trip once a year. She might have to see about doing away with it completely if the whining and complaining kept up.

Tom was the first out – eager to exit the confined space and get away from the other children, who were the vilest creatures he had ever come across.

“Don’t go far, Tom!” Mrs Cole called after him as he wandered off to a rocky outcropping to explore.

Tom rolled his eyes and scowled, but with his back to her, Mrs Cole didn’t see. Lucky, or she would have punished him and made him supervise the other children or help prepare the lunch; both tasks Tom despised.

It wasn’t quite the sandy shoreline Tom had pictured. It was more rock than anything. Plus crashing waves and howling wind that seemed to cut right through his patched and frayed jumper, chilling him to the bone. Tom looked around glumly, it was a _shit_ spot for a picnic, he thought, borrowing one of Billy’s favourite bad words.

Still, maybe there was something interesting here. Fossilised rocks maybe or hidden treasure? Tom’s eyes gleamed as he thought about that. A whole chest filled with gold and jewels, imagine that! Wouldn’t it be something? He wouldn’t share it with anyone if he found it of course. _Finders, keepers._ He began picking up rocks and stones, stacking them up into a pile as he turned them over, looking for fossils, or perhaps a treasure map. He found neither of course, which was disappointing, but not entirely unexpected.

Tom rolled over a particularly big rock and stumbled back with a sharp gasp, his eyes widening with the shock of discovery as a large grass snake slowly raised its head, blinking its beady eyes at him. The snake moved so fast, it was scarcely to be believed and Tom quickly scrambled away from it, leaping behind his pile of rocks as the snake tried to bite the child who had uncovered his hiding place. Grass snakes weren’t venomous, Tom knew, but he was frightened just the same.

The snake opened its mouth and hissed, preparing to sink its fangs into the boy. Tom moved backwards too quickly and fell over, grazing his hand as he tried to break his fall. The snake advanced as Tom crawled on his backside, trying to get away from it. He hadn’t felt this kind of fear in years and suddenly he’d had quite enough.

“STOP!” Tom yelled at the snake, but the word didn’t come out quite as he’d expected. Instead a strange hissing noise escaped his lips.

The snake halted instantly, brought to heel by the authority of the young Parselmouth.

“My apologies…” The snake hissed to Tom, who stared wide-eyed.

“You speak English?” Tom said, awestruck. This was just like a fairy tale! He would have preferred a talking dragon, but he supposed a snake would do.

“I speak only the tongue of the _serpens.”_ The snake hissed in reply.

“I don’t speak _serpens.”_ Tom said, puzzled.

“Yes, you do.” The snake replied, eying Tom beadily.

“Do other people speak _serpens?”_ Tom asked curiously.

“None that I have spoken to.” The snake whispered. “I imagine only a special few humans speak it. It is an Ancient Tongue. Forgotten by most.”

Tom mulled that over. _Special…_ Well, he knew that already, he thought smugly.

“You stopped when I told you to.” Tom said shrewdly, as the snake nodded in agreement.

“Are we…friends?” Tom asked carefully, trying not to look too hopeful. 

The snake seemed to consider that for a moment. “I would not be opposed to that arrangement.” He hissed in reply.

“So tell me, _friend.”_ Tom said, pressing his advantage. “Is there any treasure around here? Or maps or anything?” He felt stupid as soon as he said it, but for his many gifts, Tom was a nine year old child, and he still dreamed of adventure like any other boy.

“I know of no treasure or trinkets.” The snake said with a shake of his head. “You like exploring and secrets?” He asked. When Tom nodded eagerly, the snake continued. “There is a cave. A secret cave. At the base of the cliff below.” He hissed conspiratorially, and Tom smiled.

He would have to wait until after lunch to investigate however, as Mrs Cole began calling him to join the other children for lunch.

Tom wolfed down ham and cheese sandwiches as quickly as he could, eager to find the cave and start exploring. He had to wait for the other children to finish before he was allowed to be excused by Mrs Cole, and all the while Tom positively itched with impatience. When Mrs Cole finally let them go about their afternoon play, Tom immediately leapt to his feet and made to head for the cliff. But Mrs Cole called after him.

“Tom!” She said sharply, bringing him to a halt, as he turned and looked at her. She was going to ask him to do something annoying and dull, he was almost sure of it.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” she asked him curiously.

Tom hesitated for a fraction of a second before replying. “Exploring.” He shrugged.

“I think you should take someone with you.” Mrs Cole said in _that_ tone. The tone that let Tom know it wasn’t a request. He scowled deeply but allowed Mrs Cole to force Amy and Dennis on him.

Tom gritted his teeth. He shouldn’t have stopped at all when Mrs Cole had called him. If he’d ignored her, he wouldn’t be dealing with Amy’s petulant whining and dear God, he could swear his scalp was crawling with one of Dennis Bishop’s tiny parasites.

By the time they reached the cliff, well out of both earshot and eyesight of Mrs Cole, Tom had had just about enough of the pair of them. Dennis was still scratching his disgusting hair and _you did not just do that!!_ Tom thought with revulsion. Dennis had just picked his nose and then popped the slimy green bogey into his mouth. Meanwhile, little Amy had taken one look at the ocean and begun whining again.

“Can we go back? It’s cold.” She complained, her teeth chattering. “And I don’t like heights.” She added, whinging.

“ _Enough!”_ Tom yelled, his eyes flashing, as the tingling surge of his special powers flooded his veins, emanating from him in a wave that sent Amy and Dennis flying backwards, the two children finding themselves flung over the edge of the clifftop, nothing but air and powerful waves smashing on the rocks beneath them.

Little Amy cried out in fear. She was suspended in mid-air, over an impossibly long drop; the big, deep ocean crashing below onto the rocks.

“I can’t swim! I can’t swim!” She sobbed.

“Just let us go!” Dennis begged, nearly speechless with fear over both the certain death that waited at the bottom of the cliff and also this otherworldly power Tom seemed to possess.

“You want me to let you go?” Tom said slowly as both children nodded, scared out of their wits.

A smile crossed Tom’s face and he indeed _let them go,_ Amy and Dennis plummeting a good twenty or thirty feet before Tom slowed their fall, just in time to drop them onto a narrow ledge on the cliff face, to which they clung, both sobbing hysterically.

Tom himself slid effortlessly down the cliff-face, almost as though he were suspended by invisible ropes. He relished the power flooding his veins; this was amazing; this was _magic._ He landed lightly on a large flat rock, waves crashing around him, the salty spray of the sea filling his senses. He could see the cave opening from here; it was little more than a fissure carved into the face of the rock, but perhaps it was bigger inside.

Spotting him, Amy screamed over the crashing of the waves “Let us go back, Tom! Please! Or I – I’ll tell Mrs Cole on you!” She sobbed hysterically.

“I don’t think Mrs Cole can hear you!” Tom shouted triumphantly. They were in his power now; there was no help, no escape. He could do just what he wanted.

“Do what I say, and I’ll let you go back.” Tom promised, as Dennis let out a whimper of fear that greatly pleased the young Riddle. Amy nodded in agreement, though she continued to clutch the cliff-face as though her very life depended on it.

“What do you want us to do?” Dennis called down to him, crying out in fear as a wave suddenly crashed into the side of the cliff.

Tom grinned wickedly. “Jump.” He said simply.

“You’re insane!” Amy cried. “I told you I can’t swim!” She whimpered, terrified.

“I don’t care.” Tom declared. “Jump.”

When both children shook their heads and clung still tighter to the cliff-face, Tom repeated himself.

“Jump!” He called. “Jump or I’ll _make_ you.” He said threateningly.

Amy and Dennis only snivelled and cried and clung to the cliff. His eyes gleaming, Tom felt the power of the water surging around him, his own power mingling with the primal natural forces, urging him on. Tom smiled to himself as he manipulated a wave, sending it flooding over the cliff-face, as Amy and Dennis screamed, plummeting into the freezing water.

But Tom wasn’t done playing. He was a cat, and these were his mice. He sent another wave with a motion of his hand, the sheer power of the swirling water sending Amy and Dennis crashing onto the solid rock of the floor of the cave entrance. They had arrived, Tom thought with smug satisfaction as he skimmed the tops of the waves, his feet barely getting wet as he landed next to the pair, who coughed and retched and shivered violently, their faces deathly pale and eyes panicked, like frightened animals.

“Get inside.” Tom said coldly, and both children rose instantly, trembling, to obey.

Tom followed after them. It was dark, so dark he could barely see. A green light shimmered off the face of an underground lake that filled the cavern. This would make a good hiding place, Tom thought to himself. He’d like to come back here one day maybe. It was a far better and more secret clubhouse than the little library at the orphanage.

He was distracted from his grand plans by Amy’s continued sobs. In the dim light, Tom could see Dennis crouching on the floor of the cave, rocking back and forth in a state of uncontrolled panic, the boy’s hand absently drifting to scratch his bug infested hair.

Tom scowled. Parasites weren’t allowed in Club Riddle. That should be a rule. Everyone had to wash their hair before they were allowed in. Tom smirked, using his power to send Dennis flying onto the rocky edge of the lake, where Tom made the water swirl over the boy’s hair, head, face and neck.

“Tom! Stop it! Stop!” Amy shrieked, as Dennis struggled and thrashed in the water, unable to breathe.

Tom released the boy and Dennis rolled over, coughing and retching.

“Hmmm… I don’t think I got all the bugs.” Tom said thoughtfully, forcing Dennis under the water again as bubbles gargled from the boy’s throat, his underwater scream of terror sending a sadistic thrill of pleasure to Tom’s wicked heart.

“Stop! You’ll drown him!” Amy begged,, pleading with him.

Tom shrugged, but released Dennis, the small boy giving a great gasp, coughing up great lungful’s of murky water and vomiting violently, before scrambling as far from the water’s edge as he could, hyperventilating, his pupils wide with shock as he struggled to get his breath.

“Why are you so mean?” Amy sobbed. “I just want to go home.” She admitted.

_Ughh enough whining!_ Tom thought savagely, tempted to throw the wretched girl into the lake and leave her there. Maybe he didn’t need to, not when he could make the lake come to her… Walls of water rose around them, and big rocks too, which Tom sent smashing against the walls of the cavern, drawing a petrified scream of terror from Amy, who ran as fast as her legs could carry her, only to be met with a swirling wall of water that flooded over her, forcing her eyes shut and flooding down her nose and her throat, the icy cold filling her with a terror deeper than any she had ever known. And she was drowning… drowning… drowning… 

* * *

“I didn’t _touch_ them! We just went exploring!” Tom Riddle adamantly declared later to Mrs Cole.

She had only managed to get one word out of a wide-eyed and still rocking Dennis Bishop: “cave.” And little Amy Benson was making no sense at all, merely muttering over and over “Drowning, drowning, drowning.”

Mrs Cole shook her head, utterly bewildered by it all. _Something_ had happened; that much was clear. But there was no proof. There was never any proof with Tom Riddle. He was a master at… whatever he did to the other children. She let Tom go, but made a mental note of the incident.

Someone else also made a mental note of it too, having beheld the rawness of the power Tom had exhibited in the cave and the darkness of the boy’s twisted pleasure in a vision that came to him. He even knew his name now after hearing those children scream it… “Tom.”

Gellert Grindelwald was one step closer to finding his future protégé…


	7. Cold, Dark And Yesterday

_ August 28, 1899 _

He watched the boy from the shade of a burnt out tree. It had been quite some time since he'd lost control of his magic, but lose control he had. This burnt out glade was a testament to that. The only thing not blackened by fire was the surface of a nearby pond where a fifteen year old boy sat side by side with a white nanny goat named Esmerelda. 

A heaviness hung over him as he watched Aberforth gently rub Esmerelda's head, her gold eyes seeming to shine in the dappled sunlight that filtered through the branches overhead. 

He supposed Albus was off somewhere making funeral arrangements. Or perhaps he had barricaded himself in his room with his books and trophies. Or had he gone to the little cemetery to beg his mother's forgiveness? Gellert had already been. In the end, he hadn't been able to find any words to say. He'd stared at Kendra's name etched in marble and the only thought he'd had was that mother and daughter would be together in death, peaceful at last. 

He wasn't sorry, not in the way he thought he should be. Well, really, the way Aunt Hilda expected him to be. She thought he should extend his sympathies to Albus and Aberforth. Offer condolences. A sadistic part of him wanted to offer his congratulations. Albus was free - there was no responsibility tying him to this dead end town anymore. Aunt Hilda didn't understand. He regretted it. But it wasn't remorse or grief or even guilt that he felt. He hadn't lost Ariana. You couldn't lose someone who had been beneath your notice and worthy of contempt in the first place. No, he regretted that he'd lost Albus. 

If there was one person that could help him get Albus back, it was this boy. The boy he had thought too brash, too rude, too unfocused, too unpredictable, too  _ everything.  _ Aberforth paled in contrast to his brilliant brother. The trouble was, while Gellert and Albus had been of one mind and shared the closest of bonds mere days ago, Aberforth and Ariana had shared a bond too. They had been two snargaluffs in a pod. The crude, loud boy with dirt under his nails, a dislike of books and who carried an odour of straw, mud and goats everywhere he went. And the strange girl with her too-large eyes, ragged one eared rabbit toy, and her bursts of power and emotion that would send magic outwards in a blast wave if someone moved her carefully arranged picture books out of alignment. The two were a strange pair, yet the smelly goat-boy could calm the chaos of the strange little fairy-child; she in turn could draw a patience and gentleness from her brother that Gellert would never have credited him with. But she was gone and so was any trace of patience in Aberforth Dumbledore, whose eyes suddenly met Gellert's, registering his presence with a flash of hate showing in the depths of his blue irises. 

"Don't," Gellert said, the command falling from his lips as Aberforth shoved a hand into his pocket, no doubt reaching for his wand. 

Aberforth scoffed at him, spitting on the ground at Gellert's feet. 

"You don't tell me what to do," Aberforth said, sending him a withering glare. 

"Fine," Gellert conceded, hands raised in a conciliatory gesture. "I only came to talk."

"I don't want to talk to you," Aberforth said furiously. "I don't ever want to see you again. And neither does Albus." 

Gellert swallowed hard. For all his poor manners and ignorance, Aberforth had a discerning eye. He knew how to pour salt in an open wound: Albus. 

"What's the matter, missing your boyfriend?" Aberforth said tauntingly, snapping Gellert out of his reverie. 

Gellert's eyes narrowed. 

"You're jealous," he breathed. 

"Of what?" Aberforth scoffed. "You're just a weirdo with some stupid stories and even stupider plans. Your own family doesn't even want you!" 

Gellert's wand was in his hand before he realised what he was doing. 

"Go on," Aberforth said daringly. "Torture me again. Albus isn't here to stop you. Kill me like you killed her." 

"I didn't. I never touched that little freak," Gellert spat.

"DON'T TALK ABOUT MY SISTER LIKE THAT!!" Aberforth yelled at the top of his lungs, slugging Gellert in the jaw. 

Gellert stumbled back a few paces, his hand automatically feeling the tender spot on his chin, as Aberforth came close to rounding what had always been a very square jaw. 

"You alright, Aberforth?" a quiet voice asked, as Albus entered the burnt out glade. He ignored Gellert completely, not looking at him once. 

"Me and Esmerelda are fine. We're leaving," Aberforth said, glaring at Gellert and seizing the loose loop of rope around the goat's neck, leading her away through the blackened trees. 

"Albus--" Gellert started. 

"Stay away from my brother," Albus said quietly. 

"I have no interest in your brother," Gellert said softly, taking a step towards Albus. "We could still--"

"No, Gellert," Albus said firmly. "We're not partners. Not anymore. I never should've listened to you," he said miserably, staring at the rippling surface of the pond. 

"Just give me another chance," Gellert pleaded. 

"I  _ am  _ giving you a chance," Albus replied coldly. "I'm giving you  _ one  _ chance. Leave now.  _ Never  _ come near me or my family again and I won't report you to the Aurors." 

"Report me for what?" Gellert said sharply. 

"For the murder of a fourteen year old girl," Albus said coldly, turning and walking away. It was the last time Gellert would see him in many years, their paths forever divided.

  
  


_ May 17, 1936 _

_ Albus.  _ The name left a bitter taste in Gellert's mouth. He hadn't thought of that last day with the Dumbledore brothers for a long time. The intervening years had pushed it from his mind as he focused solely on his goal of attaining the Hallows. It returned to him now though in full force. He and Albus had been true partners once - in mind, body, soul, and purpose. But they walked different paths now. Maybe it had been meant to happen. Maybe Albus had been ripped away from him to prepare for an even greater partner, a true equal...

_ Tom.  _ Gellert turned the name over in his mind, relishing the three simple letters that spelled a great future triumph for his cause. The name of his future partner and heir to the world they would build together. Albus was his past. Tom was his future. When their paths inevitably converged, he would be ready… 


End file.
